


No Different

by LearnedFoot



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Drunk Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29348127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: Tony is nineteen the first time Obie whores him out.Wait. That’s not the right word. Whores get paid.
Relationships: Obadiah Stane/Tony Stark, Tony Stark/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	No Different

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scioscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/gifts).



> I loved your Tony/Obie prompts so much. Hope you enjoy this little dose of dirtybadwrong for V-Day XD

Tony is nineteen the first time Obie whores him out.

Wait. That’s not the right word. Whores get paid.

It is at—of all things—a Christmas party. Some board member’s giant mansion in fucking Westchester, which means Tony’s in a bad mood before the thing even starts. He has to be in _Westchester_ , for god’s sake. It’s barbaric. So yeah, he shows up drunk and gets a lot drunker. What did anyone expect?

If he’s being perfectly honest he couldn’t even tell you what he did to insult the host’s wife, but apparently it was bad, and now here he is an hour later, Obie telling him point blank that he has to make it right by fucking the host.

Which is just. You know. Not something he thought was part of their whole deal, here.

“Counter offer: I give him a Porsche. Everyone likes a Porsche.”

“He has three already,” Obie chides, loosening his tie. He’s sitting on the edge of a king-sized bed in what Tony can only assume is a guest room, given the lack of decorations. He spreads his legs and beckons Tony to approach. Tony follows the instruction, shivering when Obie’s hands go to his belt buckle. “He wants something he can’t buy.”

Protests well in Tony’s throat. What if it gets out to the press? What if other people think this means they get a turn?

What if he’s not sure he wants to?

But then Obie pulls Tony’s pants down and wraps a hand around his dick, and the word-forming part of his brain short circuits. He makes a noise that’s supposed to be disapproval but sounds more like a whine and bats at Obie’s hand, but it’s half-hearted. Maybe a few years ago a that would have been enough for Obie to back off, but by now they both know Tony likes this too much to take his objections seriously.

“Come on, Tony,” Obie urges, his other hand sliding down to fondle Tony’s balls. “You fuck anything that moves anyway. Why can’t you do this for me?”

Tony can’t think of an answer that isn’t all about himself, _his_ wants. He can already imagine Obie’s answer: Tony and his ego, always making a mess, not even man enough to clean it up.

Obie does something tricky with his fingers that makes Tony jolt and almost lose balance. He closes his eyes, as if not seeing the world will somehow make it blink out of existence. Wouldn’t that be nice?

“Well?” Obie prods, hand speeding up, pulling Tony toward the brink. “I’m not a patient man, Tony.”

Tony bends forward, eyes still closed, hands blindly finding Obie’s shoulders for support.

“I’m too drunk to be very…” His voice breaks into a moan as Obie strokes his head. “Participatory.”

Obie chuckles. “I don’t think he’ll mind. Might even like it better that way. You can just lay back and think of the company.”

His hand tightens, twists, pulls, just right, just there—

And then it’s gone.

Tony’s eyes fly open as he makes an embarrassing, pathetic sound. Obie’s hand is hovering so close, so fucking close, but not touching.

“Come on, Tony. It’ll be fun.”

Involuntarily, inevitably, Tony nods.

“Fine. _Fine_. Just please, Obie—finish me. Please?”

Obie grins, all teeth. “Of course.”

***

Fifteen minutes later, Tony is regretting the orgasm. His mind still wants to melt into the haze of post-orgasmic relaxation, but it can’t, because he’s naked and spread-eagle, with the world’s most generic businessman standing at the end of the bed staring at him like he’s a particularly delicious burger.

Forgive him if the metaphor is a bit cliché. He’s not exactly in a creative headspace. Also, he’s hungry. If it weren’t for the detour the night took he’d probably be holed up in the first shitty 24-hour diner he could find by this point. Which, man, that sounds good. Maybe he’ll do that after. A reward for getting through the sex. Yeah, that sounds—

“Tony?”

He’s missed something. The voice isn’t coming from Mr. Host Man (whose name Tony has one-hundred percent forgotten, if he ever knew). He twists his head to follow the sound; Obie is sitting in a chair just to the left of the bed, frowning at him. Which means Obie’s still here. Tony kind of expected him to leave by now.

“Um…yeah?” he ventures. He has no idea what the question was.

The frown turns harder. Goosebumps prickle down Tony’s skin as his dick makes a valiant effort to get it up again. It’s a Pavlovian response to that glare, which often comes pre-packaged with particularly delicious punishments.

Annoying.

“Show Mr. Turner what he’s working with,” Obie prompts, hint of impatience clear under his cheerful tone.

It takes Tony a few moments to figure out what that means, but eventually he grabs the back of his thighs and hoists them up, spreading himself for their host’s enjoyment. Obie likes it when he does that, and when Tony glances at the Turner guy, it’s clear he likes it, too.

“Very nice.” Turner’s voice is heavy with lust. His hand goes to his pants, palming himself.

Tony shivers, and not in the fun way. There’s nothing wrong with the guy, objectively. He’s just a guy. Normal, generic, boring. Not someone Tony would go for, but not someone he _wouldn’t_ , if it was the end of the night and no one else was around. He’s had older, uglier, worse on all objective measures.

And yet, as the man’s fingers get to work on the buttons of his own pants, nausea roles through Tony’s stomach. He looks away, head lolling instinctively in Obie’s direction.

He doesn’t complain. _Can’t_ complain. He’s come thioo far; backing out now would make everything awful. But some of what he’s feeling must be there in his eyes, because Obie scoots closer, hand coming to Tony’s head, thick fingers massaging s scalp.

“You’re doing great,” he assures him, leaning in, breath hot and stinging with booze. “Mr. Turner is very pleased. Aren’t you, Greg?”

“Very.”

The thought is punctuated by the sound of a belt hitting the floor, a zipper coming down. Tony flinches.

Obie’s fingers tighten, tugging his hair.

“None of that,” he warns, voice lower. “Play nice.” He twists his hand, dragging Tony’s gaze back to their host. His pants are down, dick out and hard, hand working across it, applying lube. At least it’s not too big. “He’s ready when you are, Greg.”

Tony isn’t ready, actually—thank you very much for asking, Obie—but the guy stalks over anyway. He grabs Tony’s legs, shoving them up against his chest, a harsh, sharp movement that twinges a muscle in his thigh.

The worst part is, Obie lets go of Tony’s hair, sitting back in his chair as Mr. whatever the fuck his name is nudges his dick against Tony’s hole. Tony misses Obie’s touch immediately. At least it was familiar.

“He’s too tight,” the asshole at the end of the bed grumbles.

“Tony, relax.” Obie’s voice is a command and Tony’s dick likes it. Fuck. So much to examine there, but now is not the time. Now, he just needs to listen, do as Obie says, relax. He can do this. He knows how. He does it all the time; this is no different.

Their host groans as his dick finally breaches Tony’s entrance.

“Yeah, fuck. _So_ tight.” This time it doesn’t sound like a complaint.

“Good boy,” Obie growls, finally sounding turned on, too.

Tony closes his eyes and tries to pretend the dick pressing into his hole belongs to that voice. Arousal tugs deep in his gut, soothing the nausea. He lets out a soft gasp.

“Very good,” Obie repeats, pleased. “Look at you, Tony. You’re so good at this.”

Tony lets himself drift on that voice as the man begins to thrust. Lay back, think of the company, think of Obie, think of how good he’s being—

His body sparks when the man hits his prostate; he’s still oversensitive from the first orgasm, but at least it’s pleasure, and pleasure is better than—whatever. Pleasure is good. Hands grab his hips, nails biting into his skin, hard and demanding. That’s good too. Obie does that, it’s something Obie likes, it’s good, he’s good. This is good, it’s okay, it’s sex, he likes it, it’s okay, it’s okay—

The man picks up pace and Tony arches into it, moaning. Putting on a show, or maybe meaning it, he’s not even sure. Does the difference matter?

Somewhere to the left, Obie tells him he’s good again and Tony preens, letting that overwhelm him, letting that be everything.

He’s good, he’s doing good, it’s okay.

***

It’s over quickly. Rough and fast and then the guy is coming with a disgusting grunt. He pulls out, leaving Tony dripping with come and somehow rock hard again despite the booze and the nausea that keeps returning and fading in waves.

Tony curls on his side, eyes still closed, fading away as the man and Obie quietly talk. They sound pleased, so this was probably a success. Obie is going to be happy with him. That’s good. That’s really good.

It’s all really good.

***

A few minutes later, the man leaves and Tony’s theory is proven right. Obie’s heavy steps come to the bed. Then there’s a dip, and a hand warm on Tony’s back.

“You did great,” Obie says. “I’m very happy with you.”

Tony’s heart hitches. He makes a noncommittal sound.

“Very happy,” Obie repeats. He shifts, stretching out next to Tony, pressing his erection against his back. His hand slips around his front. “I liked it. I liked it quite a bit. Do you want me to show you how much I liked it?”

Tony nods, whispering, “Please.”

Obie moans, rutting, kissing the side of Tony’s neck.

“Please,” Tony says again. “Obie, please.”

He lets himself get lost in Obie’s touch, the familiar warmth of his body, his scent. So lost that he can almost forget the one thought that tugs in the back of his mind, sharp as a knife through the muddle of arousal and booze and exhaustion:

If Obie liked it, it’s going to happen again.


End file.
